Day 352

The boy is sitting on the ground
in front of his tent, sounding out
words.  A year ago he had been learning
to read; then everything ended.
Seven times his family has pitched
and unpitched their tent.  Seven times
the boy has picked up his books,
his backpack, and walked
to the next place.  It’s
all right, his father has said;
So many have died but we are still alive.
Your mother, your sisters — we
are living.  The boy looks
into his father’s eyes.  He has learned
to read faces better than words.  He has
learned to read sky, shadow, movements.
This is the sinister knowledge of war.
These are the phonetics of genocide.